Richard Neville
2026

The anguish with which you woke up. “My baby!” you said, and I felt it, believe me I felt it. A thousand times, a million, more.

I gave you a minute. Waited for you to arrive. You said, “Where am I?”

I said, “Hello.”

You said, “Who are you?”

I get that a lot. I don’t look like much. A man, maybe a woman. Somewhere between a superhero and a tax inspector I suppose. Hard to age. You always seem to struggle with that.

I replied to your question, “We’ll come to that.”

I watched something flash across your face, shudder through your body. You felt for your legs, and seemed confused that they were there. You said one word, bit by bit: “Shh... shhh... shark.”

I said, “Yes. A shark. Three metres. Tiger shark. Pregnant female.”

You began to cry, and said, “My baby,” over and over.

I said, “She survived. I’d like you to know that.”

You nodded, taking it in.

You said, “I died.”

I said, “Yes you did. It only took a few minutes. When you pushed her inflatable towards the shore, you saved the life of your child.”

You said, “I’m dead.”

I said, “Yes,” and waited. I don’t mind waiting, there’s all the time in the world.

You said, “I drowned.”

I said, “Technically it was blood loss, but also, yes you drowned.”

You said, “My baby,” again and began to sob. It broke my heart. But I comforted you until you felt comforted.

You said, “What is this? Where am I?”

I watched you look around, wondering what you’d like to see.

I said, “What can you see?”

You said, “Oh my God.”

I said, “Mmm.”

You said, “You’re God.”

I said, “Well. Sort of.”

You said, “I’m in Heaven,” and began to cry again.

You’re very in touch with your emotions. Honestly, that means so much to me. As it does to you.

I said, “Look around.”

You said, “It’s so beautiful,” and we both spent a moment looking at the luminescent orb on which you spent thirty two years.

Then you said, “It’s as perfect as my baby’s eyes,” and at that even I began to cry.

I said, “That’s not a coincidence.”

I put a hand on your shoulder. “I want you to know she won’t remember the details - not like that. She was saved by a lifeguard, brought to shore without the slightest graze, still cradled in that inflatable flamingo you both love so much. One day, in her twenties, she will take drugs on a beach, see a flamingo just like that one and remember the feeling from that day. She will be with her boyfriend, and they will become pregnant six years later. Same age as you.”

I offered you my handkerchief. “You did very well. It’s over now.”

Again, I gave you a bit more time.

You said, “This is Heaven.”

I enjoy repetition. It’s kind of my thing.

We watched the earth spin into the distance, as the swirl of the Milky Way took shape around us.

You said, “It’s like water.”

I said, “It’s always the same pattern, large or small.”

You said, “What happens now?”

I said, “You’ll be reincarnated in a minute.”

You said a number of things in response, including, “What?”, “How?”, and “Why?”

Then you said, “Will I remember?”

And I said, “No.”

You said, again, “Then why? If I don’t remember anything I’ve learned, what’s the point? I’ll just be starting again each time.”

I said, “The work doesn’t happen out there. It happens in here.” And I pointed at your solar plexus.

You looked confused.

I said, “You are more magnificent and more beautiful than you can possibly imagine. No single human life can comprehend how marvellous you are. Not all in one go. Out here, sure, if we stayed you’d start remembering everything. But it’s not time for that yet. For now, I just want to reassure you that each life builds on the last.”

Honestly I wasn’t concerned that you didn’t seem to fully understand.

You said, “How many times have I been reincarnated?”

I replied, “Oh lots. Lots and lots.”

“This time,” I said, “you’ll be a Viking marauder in 793 C.E. You’ll be at the attack on Lindisfarne - it’s a good one.”

You seemed shocked by this, but also thoughtful. After a while you said, “If I get reincarnated lots and lots of times, in all the places, and all the ages, will I have met myself?”

I grinned at you. Now you’re getting it. “Of course!” I said, “Though you won’t realise that at the time.”

“I’m going to kill people as a Viking.”

“Yes I’m afraid so.”

“Was I my grandmother? I always felt like I might have been.”

“Yes you were.”

“Was I Louis Armstrong?”

“Absolutely. And everyone in the audience.”

“Was I...” You paused. “Was I Donald Trump?”

“Yes,” I said. “A long time ago. And most of his supporters.”

Before you said, “No,” I said, “Wait.”

You waited. And then.

“Was I Jesus? Was I Muhammad? Mother Teresa? The Buddha?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But you will be soon.”

“I don’t understand. Why are we here?”

I said, “I think you are starting to understand.”

You thought about this.

I gave you a little prompt. “Every interaction matters. Every single one. You’re doing it to yourself. With each life, you mature a little. That’s what needs to happen.”

You nodded, very slowly.

Thinking aloud you said, “But it can be so painful. So awful. So wonderful. Beautiful. Strange. So many things.”

I said, “That’s right.”

You said, “You want humanity to mature?”

I said, “No. Just you.”

You looked at me.

“Just me?”

“Just you,” I said. “There’s only you and me here.”

You said, “But everyone...?”

I said, “They’re all you. Every single one.”

I wondered whether to mention the shark again but figured that might be too much.

You became reflective, and you said, “It was me all along.” It was part a question, part a tasting.

I said, “Well. Sort of,” but quietly, so as not to confuse.

We sat for a while. Drinking the universe.

You said, “You know dogs look like their owners?”

“Yes,” I said, and laughed.

“Are they their owners?”

“Yes,” I said, and laughed again.

We both sat quietly, and the stillness filled with your love and your confusion.

Another moment, and you said, “Who am I?”

I said, “That’s it. You’ll be like me one day. Honestly I can’t wait. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone.”

You said, “Who am I?”

I said, “My baby. You are my beautiful baby,” and I sent you on your way.